Summer with Sherlock
by CastingAnthems
Summary: No one ever knew Sherlock Holmes had a son, and now he's going to be spending the whole summer with him. It's going to be a very interesting summer. The story is told through Sherlock's son point of view and it's only based off of what he's been told. Blog like set up.
1. Chapter 1 Beginnings

_**A Summer with Sherlock**_

 _By Colvin_

 _Authors note: Hey guys! Almost a year with no updates, here I am! I wanted to start off with something fresh and new. However, this idea, A Summer with Sherlock, has been a buzzing around in my head for a long time. Yes, this short story has a deep connection to Recreating Love (my other unfinished book) but I'll do my very best to make it where you don't even need to read it. Bare with me. I'll explain as I go and will answer any questions you may have. Thank you!_

 _Special note: This story is meant to be set up like a unofficial published blog. The side notes are just Roman's thoughts and edits needed to be made (not real edits I hope)._

-Roman's private blog-

A re-re account by Roman S. Holmes

 **A Summer With Sherlock Holmes**

Side note/Possible chapter title/The opening: Beginnings are always the hardest.

Now, I'm going to tell you a story. A rather lengthy one so I'd suggest you take a seat and strain your vision until I finish. I can assure you, you aren't going to want to stop reading. I can see it right now; there you lay, in your desired position, coiled, it's so late into the night the moon is curious to see what is so interesting on that electronic device you are addicted to. It wouldn't come to a surprise, not even to me, the secondary resourcer behind the tale you are about ready to hear.

Side note: Coming off as a jackass makes a reader desire a character " _break-down_ ". Not that kind of story.

When I was first told this real-life story I didn't want to stop listening. And not for the reasons you think. It sounded like complete rubbish, utter garbage. I could compare it to one of those half-assed bedtime stories your brain-dead parents told you so you'd settle down and go to sleep. I couldn't stop listening because regardless of how many times I broke into disbelief laughter and attempted to dismiss it, the emotion spoken, the impact each and every word carried so much meaning and impossible truth I finally shut up, opened my ears and closed my denying mouth.

So, I've decided to take time out of my busy schedule, which is _very_ busy mind you. I'm a funeral home director, (death and I don't necessarily having collating schedules) and explain, in great detail, to the best of my knowledge, the events of this unique, one hundred percent true story. However, on the down side, I may have been told this story about a million times it seems, forgive me if I get a detail or two wrong. It's unlikely, but probable.

One thing I have noticed, it always starts off like this: "I had no idea Sherlock Holmes had a son." and continued into, "Sherlock doesn't seem much like the family type." or "Can this world really handle another Sherlock Holmes running around?" If I had a dollar for every time I heard those three sentences I would no longer be a funeral home director but one of the world's youngest retired man. Moving on, irrelevant, the answers to those statements are— well as you will read they will shed some light on your wonders. Be prepared, though, one of those opinions is completely wrong.

Side note: Don't ramble, people really couldn't care less. I don't. Maybe remove occupation, quite obvious, and schedule _joke_. Death isn't funny, only to you. You sick bastard. Also too much leading.

Okay, I think it's about time I started, so I will.

I'm almost positive I was five and a half (give or take a couple months) the summer I went and lived with my father, Sherlock Holmes. I had never met the man previous to our introduction to a summer long session together and from what I've been told my reaction to him was not that of a smile but shameful shyness. I hid behind bags my mother packed for me and stared at him. And giving you an idea of what I saw as a five year old compared to now I'm sure is no different. A tall and thin, pale skinned, too well dressed for home, man with dark, rich, curly brown hair and big blue eyes just like mine. He had a loud, confusing voice and moved around the cluttered room with ease. To a five year old who understood he was going to be spending a lot of time with this— _scary_ being, hiding from him for as long as possible was my only option. I guess throwing a temper tantrum was out of the question given that we were there. Then again, I've been told I was a decent behaved child, other than some kinks...you'll understand later.

Side note: Sherlock was and still is a startling person to me. Maybe I was possessed as a child or had a _very_ active imagination? I wonder if my mother sat me down for one of those speeches she gives just before company came over or we went somewhere out in public where her imagine mattered. I'm starting to question what kind of child I was.

I can give a clear, 3-D picture of just what my mother would have looked like the day she dropped me off at Sherlock's. A stained image of her is burned into my mind and I can recover it to perfection whenever I need nevertheless the circumstances. It's only one of three accurate images I can remember when I was that young. But my mother would have been wearing her favored red high heels. She was already a skyscraper compared to myself and with those shoes it seemed the sky was not the limit. More times than not have I saw her wear those shoes. A silk black dress that reached a inch or two passed her knees fit snug on her tiny, bony body. Even for being a mom my mother kept a good figure. To match her heels, bright red lipstick that only needed reapplied once made her face glow, like an angel. Just like Sherlock, she had thick brown curly hair. Which even as an adult, it still throws me off. Both my parents had decently curly hair and I did not. Well, on my best days.

Side note: Why isn't my hair curly? I'm not complaining, it seems hard to manage but genetic...

My mom was everything to me. She was all I knew. I don't remember having any friends nor did it seem I ever interacted with anyone else but her before coming to Sherlock's. Now, I'm only guessing. There was no way to find out if this was actually true or not. Again, I was a five year old boy who was going to be leaving his mother for the first time and it was going to be for an entire summer. I'm positive I was scared shitless. Holding back the tears the best I could.

To his observation, Sherlock's I mean, (he accounts for seventy percent of this story) my mother and him argued slightly over my placement. According to Sherlock, he did not agree to this babysitting job but typed emails to each other said otherwise. But he can remember my mom's and I departing. She dismissed him and his futile attempt to change her mind and bent down to my level, forcing a stress free smile on her face. She reached out for me to uncover myself from the suitcases, I walked to her sheepishly. A glassy layer glazed over her eyes as she studied me and ran her white tip painted finger nails threw my hair.

Side note: This dialogue is only about 43.8% accurate given it was over twenty years ago not even Sherlock's amazing brain can recall such a useless conversation. Don't give up too much information.

She said something routine like this, "You are going to be good for mommy, right?"

I nodded, not really knowing if I was telling the truth or not.

"You are going to be brave for me? No crying, okay? If you cry mommy will cry and then my makeup will be ruined. We can't have that, can we?"

It was already too late, for her anyways. Tears were already starting to build, I just stood their faintly shaking and chewing on my jacket sleeve. I wasn't much for talking when I was younger, even now you're lucky to get more than a paragraph out of me a day. It's a honest trait I get from Sherlock.

She grabbed me and quickly pulled us into a tight hug, her arms crushing me, I was drowning in the scent of sweet perfume. My small arms couldn't move to hug her back. No one is sure how long we stayed like that but I'm sure it was before I blacked out from lack of air. Before she stood up she collected herself, wiping escaped tears from both our eyes and and assured I looked presentable. Adjusting my jacket and hair. The normal mom things. All while she kept that same forced smile on her face.

My mother exchanged some more words with Sherlock. Something about my favorite foods, favorite T.V. programs and what to do if I couldn't sleep at night. Which in reality, my mother left that instruction rather vague. _Too_ vague. Things she knew Sherlock wouldn't care to remember so she gave him a written list about me.

Side note: Insomnia. I'm not really sure why I had such sleeping issues as child. I was never exposed to horror films, bad video games nor did I hear terrifying things at school. But as I got older and more curious I could see why. I rarely sleep now. Again, thanks to Sherlock.

My face must have been too much for anyone to bare because as my mother made her way to the door to leave she did not look at me. I'm sure I wanted her to look, thinking if I gave her big enough puppy dog eyes we'd go home.

No, not this time.

She quietly shut the chipped forest green door, leaving me behind. The first time ever.

Sherlock was already stressed, sleep deprived and too busy to deal with me. Once my mother shut that door he told me he scrambled over to his designated chair and threw himself down into it, releasing all the muscle tension he could. He observed me, my small structure was turned away from him, watching the door, patiently. Waiting on my mother to change her mind. Tell me it was all one big joke.

"She's not coming back. The cab was already downstairs waiting on her." He said without an care.

Unsure what to do, I cautiously turned around to face him, chewing on my jacket sleeve nervously again. Sherlock motioned for me to sit down in a large burgundy recliner adjacent from him. My feet tripped over themselves as I made my way over. The closer I got to it the higher up it seemed to get. A endless cotton and polyester mountain. I basically had to jump, my eighteen inch long legs (just guessing again) swimming over the edge.

"Since we will be spending a fairly decent amount of time together, well besides the days I'll dump you off on Marry or my brother, there are some things about me you should know," he sat up in the chair, "I don't eat very much so be sure to tell Mrs. Hudson what you like to eat before she goes to the grocery each day. I don't cook either, that's her job as well. I don't clean nor will I clean up after you so don't make a mess of the flat or yourself. Do not touch any of my things. Over half of it could kill you anyways. Don't bother me when I have company. It's prefer you just leave the room entirely."

Side Note: This is always where I think to myself: _What a dick_. He completely denied me of my basic child care needs. Things did not get off on a good start and it only gets worse. I'm surprised I didn't die. Add more character to Sherlock.

I was five years old I was hardly understanding what he was saying. Even more so was it even harder for me to pay attention I'm sure. The room was full of interesting, mind expanding objects I was instructed to not touch. The clutter was just an open invitation for a child to explore.

"Do you know how to talk?"

As Sherlock waited for me to answer he knew the question startled me as I almost jumped and returned my full attention back to him. I sluggishly nodded my head.

"So you do, you just don't talk much?" The right side of his face perked up, a crooked smile, "Good, lets hope it stays that way."

And with that, Sherlock disconnected himself from our present moment. His eyes shut, peacefully, and his hands came together in a prayer-like style. Going into another world he knew I couldn't follow.

This man sitting in front of me, so cold in emotion was my father… and this was just the start of a zoo like summer.

The story has only just begun.

-End.

 _Chapter 2 will be available as soon as possible! So tell me, what did you think? Please review, favorite and follow! The more support I have the quicker I can get things done. Question for you to answer/think about: Do you know who Roman's mother is and how do you think people will react to little 5 year old Roman? Thank you for reading._


	2. Chapter 2 Mrs Hudson & Her Cat

_**A Summer with Sherlock**_

 _By Colvin_

-Roman's private blog-

A re-re account by Roman S. Holmes

 **A Summer With Sherlock Holmes**

Chapter 2 That Old Lady and Her Cat

Side note: As a child I never had any pets nor did I seem to ever want any but as told, I really liked this cat. So much so, when I decided to care for an injured kitten I found one day walking the streets of London I unknowingly named the creature after that first cat I was exposed too. _Recall._

According to Sherlock, my attention span as a child, compared to average, was surprisingly larger. I could focus two minutes and forty-nine seconds longer before getting distracted by something else. So for seventeen minutes and forty-nine seconds I blatantly stared at Sherlock as he was running around in his " _mind palace_ " (That's what he's been calling it since forever now). His hands were stuck together like glue, eyes closed tightly and an emotionless expression spread like butter on his face. Honestly, one of the dullest things I took time to stare at I'm sure.

Side note: I could never understand the basic dynamics of a mind palace for it did not even look like a palace in my perspective. Yes, I am aware something like that conforms to the individual but to me, it's nothing but blank, black and white hallways. They break off into other hallways that end with the requested or unconscious memory I was or wasn't looking for. The memory is attached to the wall like a picture until I mentally press 'play'. Then brain cringing colors rain before my eyes as the memory is entertained. That's just my observation though.

Side note to side note: A little psychology lesson: I'm sure some of you are aware of what exactly my 'mind palace' setup is really. It's psychologically not a place at all but the representation of how your brain goes about recalling disconnected memories. The hallways are nerves connections and the play-pictures (that's what we will call it) are the memories itself. Realistically the play-picture memories are twenty-five percent less accurate each time you make the re-connection with them. And it's not always the memory, it could be shapes, colors and other minor details within the memory that are impacted. Our brain is constantly betraying us, transforming and reforming our memories. You can say I lack creativity with my mind palace.

Moving on, after I decided I didn't want to be bored anymore I must have wondered from that recliner Sherlock welcomed me too and made my way back over to my unmoved luggage. I tried to be quiet as I ravaged through my things. Sherlock can remember rather vividly what I pulled out because it became a foreshadowing of what exactly was expected of him to be a parent, to me that is. It was a super hero action figure, Batman. I've always had a fascination with Batman and watched every single movie made about him. There was just something about his domestic and humane nature that attracted me to him. He didn't have super powers just a shit ton of money and an awesome costume.

To accompany my Batman I found my rather battered Joker action figure. My favorite villain of Bruce Wayne followed up by Cat-woman. I did not give the Joker any mercy when it came to stopping his wicked deeds. I would throw him across my bedroom and hit him with the closest objects around me. His famous cane had broke out from his hands and his face paint was chipping away more and more with my rough beatings.

Side note: The Jokers attraction is still a running theme for me. Inside, we all hold a part of the Joker. But when it comes to crime solving, dealing with such manic, unstable criminals, it really sends a thrilling chill down my spine. My childhood pleasures come to life when I have the opportunity to be apart of such heuristic behavior. Also, I think why I liked Cat-woman is because my mother enjoyed her and carried herself with such control and power.

I guess after I found what I was looking for I drug my knees over to the leather couch that sat against the wall. It was a wet, sandy, tan with rips in the cushions. It was the perfect opening scene to play with my action figures.

I hadn't even made a vocal noise before Sherlock had enough of my noisy playing. The only sound I purposely made was when the plastic toys would make contact with the couch or with each other. I did my best to keep other sound effects in my head.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Subsequently over twenty-five minute of pure silence and then to suddenly hear a deep, sharply spoken voice yelp out my heart rate spiked up, nearly falling out of my mouth with a loud gasp to hold it back. It startled me so bad I dropped both my figures and quickly turned to him. Sherlock likes to elaborate on how big my eyes were, how heavy my breathing was.

Once he realized what I was doing he let out an aggravated sigh and rolled his eyes. He pushed himself up from the chair and started storming his way over to me. With each step my fear in what would happen next rose.

"Oh no, we can't have that. You are too noisy. I can barely hear myself think." Just before he grabbed me up by my arm I managed to pick up my Joker, leaving Batman behind. He drug me over to the door, opening it up and pushing me outside, "You can be annoying out here. Do not leave the building."

Before I could turn around Sherlock had slammed the door shut.

Side note: I'm sure if my mother knew he left me unattended for even a moment, she would have killed him. More detail on how I felt, second account memory though.

This next part, the part about the cat and how I met Mrs. Hudson (the old lady) has only been told one time and never again. Not because something eerie, or spectacular happened but because it served no real significance to anyone but me. I unknowingly renamed a cat after the one I encountered the day Sherlock kicked me out of the flat.

But there I was, sitting on the last step before Sherlock's door looking at my Joker action figure, upset with myself. I hated the Joker. I wanted Batman instead. So with a moment of anger, I threw Joker down. He bounced off numerous steps before thumping to the floor, just in front of the door.

Not even a second after it's fall the hushed sound of jingle bells and a high pitched feline-ring sounded. It seemed I only blinked and there before me, standing over top of my action figure was a solid black cat. It was sniffing curiously. And just like the cat, inquisitive to know what was going on, I stood up and slowly made my way down the stairs. Of course, I was rather small so I clung to the railing, tripping two or three times over my feet. Thankfully I caught myself. Once I got to the bottom, I tip-toed over to the cat. It wasn't scared of me nor did it even seem to notice I was there.

I was standing right beside the cat before it saw me. Shockingly, it just stood there and let out a loud meow. The action figure didn't interest it anymore, only me. It rubbed itself against my legs and meowed repetitively. I smiled for the first time in London, England and it was because a cat was nice to me. It was the only thing that hadn't shunned me for existing.

Side note: It's pretty sad I thought a cat was the only thing that liked me. This event is only 19.43% true. For all I know the cat could have hated me at first. This event may not even be real.

I sat down on the floor to be on the same level as the cat and he/she loved it. The meowing got louder and it climbed on my lap, rubbing its face on mine. I began to giggle, petting its shiny black body. I felt happy, I guess.

Just as I went to stroke the black beauty one more time a door from behind me opened and the sound of heels clicked off the floor. "Luna, here kitty-kitty," the cry of an elderly woman's voice rung out with the beat of a plastic bowl that held the food, "Dinner time!"

Luna, the black cat, jumped off of me and ran to the voice calling for it. Meowing the whole way there. The clicking of the heels nor food stopped until it was almost on top of me. I watched Luna circle the short black heels and the feet inside of it. I hesitantly look up, seeing an old woman with short brown hair and big, brown eyes that locked with mine.

"Oh dear!" She yelled out when she saw me and of course, I jumped.

Side note: If you haven't noticed people scare me. They still do.

"Where did you come from?" She asked as she laid down the food bowl, "Are you a client of Sherlock's?"

My mouth was gaping open, no words coming out of it. They wouldn't come out because I knew my house address and my mother's phone number was not the correct answer. (That was always the answer my mom expected me to tell people if they asked me where I came from, assuming I was lost.) Instead, I looked up the stairs towards Sherlock's and pointed at the door.

"Oh, well what are you doing down here? Parents really shouldn't leave their children unattended. It's a dangerous world! Someone could just come by and take you! You're a cute little boy." She smiled at me.

She held out her pale, wrinkled hand to me, "Come' on now. I'm Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady. Don't think him tell you other wise!"

Side note: Face it, Mrs. Hudson was basically Sherlock mom away from home.

I was a child who didn't trust people so easily so I know I just stared at her hand, debating in my tiny head on whether or not to trust her. Going through my past experiences I'd never had any scary instants with an old person so it was okay to trust her, right? She was just taking me back to the room I was first kicked out of.

I took her hand.

Mrs. Hudson didn't bother to knock on the door, she just opened it and walked inside. I trailed behind her making sure I stayed hidden.

"Sherlock, I found a child down stairs!"

A loud, dramatic, stomp collided with the smashing of objects roared almost at the same time she finished her announcement. Sherlock likes to remind me often how much he hates being interrupted when he's thinking so this was a bad idea.

"Ugh! What! What is it?! Can't you see I'm busy!" Sherlock screamed.

Unlike me who probably cowered away in a corner somewhere, Mrs. Hudson stood her ground, stomping her foot back at him, huffing in aggravation, "Why is there a child running loose in my building!"

"He was being annoying, much like yourself, so I made him leave my presence!"

"Where did he come from Sherlock?"

"Mrs. Hudson! Don't you have something better to do—wait! You don't!" From the corner of Sherlock's as wide as melons eyes he saw me standing behind Mrs. Hudson and the idea popped inside his endless mind, "I will pay you handsomely to care for this child until the end of summer! Say yes."

Side note: This isn't the last time Sherlock tries to sell me off to someone else. I wasn't even surprised when he told me.

In complete, utter shock Mrs. Hudson stayed silent for a minute and I don't think it's because she was considering his offer. More like she couldn't believe he could conjure up such a thing, "No! I'm not your babysitter! I have a life too you know!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson It's already more than halfway over. Babysitting, knitting, and baking sugary treats are all your about good for."

She gasped with all the breath she had inside her and huffed louder than before, "I'll have you know Mister!—"

He cut her off again, "I really don't have time to listen to your complaints will you watch him or not?"

Side note: This dialogue is only 51.9% accurate and I only say that because this conversation probably moved a lot quicker and was more insulting. Sherlock is such a arsehole.

"Whose child is it? Your brothers?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a much calmer voice.

"No." He sighed, "He's mine."

Now, Sherlock can't remember Mrs. Hudson's reaction to his reveal. Each and everyone's reaction didn't stick with him. I mean, why would it? Sherlock only kept connection to information that served a long term purpose. Even I've grown into the habit of doing that which is why I can't even remember my own birthday half the time. But he knows for sure she didn't panic, faint or cry with tears of joy. So we both assume she remained calm, collective and cool.

"You have a son? Awh, Sherlock, that's fantastic! Why didn't you tell me?" The sweetness in her voice returned.

Sherlock began to pace the room slowly, picking at things around the room as he came to them. "No one knows. Keep it that way. Now the deal will you do it?"

"What's his name? Where's the mother?" Her voice lowered an octave, "...Is she dead?"

"No!" He stopped right in front of her, "She will return at the end of the summer and his name is Roman. I think."

She turned around to me and ran her fragile fingers through my hair with a sincere smile glowing on her face, "He looks so much like you Sherlock."

"Yes, yes. Mrs. Hudson do stay focused. Will you look out for him? I'm much _too_ busy."

Sherlock knew she still wasn't paying attention, she was too occupied by looking down at me smiling like a proud grandmother, which in some odd way she was. She'd known Sherlock for a long time. She took care of him. Seeing a mini-Holmes was a rare experience and I think she was admiring the moment she was glad to be alive for. This moment to be exact.

"No," Sherlock can recall her saying quietly, "I think a relationship between father and son is a special one. No one should come between that," Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Now how about I make you two some tea and sandwiches. I'm sure Roman is starving."

Side note: Mrs. Hudson was a sweet old lady. She took the role of a loving grandmother the whole summer I stayed there. I never knew what having a grandparent felt like but if it was anything like her, man, I was really missing out. My mother never talked about her parents. I'm certain she was a orphan. Tragically, though, by the time I came back to London Mrs, Hudson had passed. A stroke had taken her in her sleep. She was 88. Sherlock always cries when he speaks about her and I can understand why.

-End.

 _I got chapter 2 up pretty quick right? I'm proud of myself. I worked on it for over 12 hours straight. But what did you think? Be sure to review, favorite and follow! Thank you so much to those of you that have already posted your reviews they make me smile! And thank you for the follows and favorites they mean so much! But, are you guys ready for some mother trucking John Watson? Yeah? I sure hope so because I am! Chapter 3: A Man Named John! See you next time!_


	3. Chapter 3 A Man Named John

_**A Summer with Sherlock**_

 _By Colvin_

-Roman's private blog-

A re-re account by Roman S. Holmes

 **A Summer With Sherlock Holmes**

Chapter 3 A Man Named John

Side note: John Hamish Watson is a noble man. I hold up great respect for him. I am, however, not amused by his perfectionist antics and military lifestyle. I do give him thanks though, because if it wasn't for those traits Sherlock may have never learned how to be a parent and I may not be alive today. But I won't spoil the fun just yet.

Sherlock is usually superb at pinpointing an exact date on everything. However, though, knowing just how many days I had been there before John Watson made an appearance was pure guesstimation. It could have been two days, four days, even a week at most. Thankfully, after much deliberation and multiple source checks, we agreed to say I had been at Sherlocks for five days. And during those five days I'm positive I did the same damn thing. I woke up on the floor surrounded by my action figures and empty plastic cups or on that stupid tan leather couch wrapped in itchy blankets Sherlock literally threw at me. I hate leather so much, it makes too much noise and it always makes your skin sweat with too much contact.

Then a half hour after I've awoken Ms. Hudson would bring me breakfast. It wasn't anything big just a muffin or toast, an egg and some juice. She would bring enough for Sherlock but by the time he woke up it was almost noon and flies started swarming around it. Between the times Sherlock woke up and I, he can remember me having the television on. It only picked up seven different channels, four of them being news stations, one religious station and the other two played miscellaneous movies and American sitcoms. I bounced between those two, of course. I guess there were times Sherlock would hear me play with my action figures, acting out their dialogue, making the special effects and even singing the Batman theme song. Which in those moments I knew it annoyed the hell out of him but when he reflects back on it, there's a longing smile on his face, as if he misses it.

Side note: Don't be fooled. There is only small, stupid things Sherlock misses or regrets during our summer. I'm sure if you asked him if he had a chance to redo everything he wouldn't take you up on that. Parenting is hard. Extremely. I wouldn't know. Try less detail on routine.

When the sleeping giant that was my father woke up, he always went to the bathroom first. That's how I knew I only had roughly twenty, twenty-five minutes left of play or T.V. time. After that, my innocent child's play died along with my spirit. I went back to being that mute, retarded, little boy he first met. Sherlock would storm into the living room, turning off the T.V. on his way to his desk. I would normally last fifteen minutes before he would open the flat door and kick me out, not speaking a single word to me in the meantime.

Once separated from Sherlock I would wait for Mrs. Hudson. I think, don't take my word for it, but it would be around six or seven before she got home. I would play with whatever I could find. The cats toys, old news paper, umbrellas and even Luna the cat, herself. I didn't have anything to eat or drink so at first I would puke inside the trash can down stairs. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock both can remember that. He had to listen to it and she had to clean it up. But that only happened three times before I got use to not eating.

According to Sherlock, he found it rather amusing, not me though, I would hold out until the last minute to go to the bathroom. My stomach swollen, eyes glassy with tears, dancing around like I had ants in my pants. When I would knock on the door it was barely audible, but loud enough the silent detective could hear it. He would open the door, knowing my complaint he'd allow me to go to the bathroom. Once relieved, he'd still be holding the door open, waiting for my exit. I couldn't stay a moment longer.

Side note: I've always had the issues of holding my bladder, I often got bladder infections or even kidney infections. Sherlock is to blame. Now, I know what I've just told you sounds a lot like child neglect, well you aren't wrong. I suffered plenty of it the first month I stayed with Sherlock.

Sometimes when Mrs. Hudson would get home, she would find me fast asleep in Luna's cat bed. That continually tend to upset her. Verbatim Sherlock can still hear her words yell inside his head; "Sherlock how can you let him stay down there for so long! He's just a child!" and then they begin to fight. It wouldn't last long, Sherlock would shut her out and she would return her worry back to me. Dinner.

But this chapter I am currently writing at two o'clock in the morning isn't about Mrs. Hudson's constant battle for me or Sherlock's stubborn ways. It's about how John Watson, my father's best friend, gave him a wake up call on just how difficult it was going to be taking on an entire summer with me. John never let up on Sherlock, he never let him back-slide on putting me first, for once.

However, what's more interesting than Doctor Watson playing drill sergeant was his reaction to my existence. Sherlock didn't tell him either.

Side note: Prepare yourself. I need to prepare myself as well. Coffee break, back in twenty. Also this upcoming dialogue is around 62.2% accurate.

It was early, and I mean too early for Sherlock (nine in the morning), who was up all night the night before typing a report on his laptop when John came over. I was already up and going back and forth on the telly about what to watch. The same old, same old. From behind me, the door began to rattle and I'm certain I thought it was Mrs. Hudson so I eagerly stood up and waited for her to come in. Once the person behind the door entered and I realized it wasn't her, panic ran inside me. Sadly, frozen with fear, I couldn't move.

I personally asked John how I reacted to him and it came to no surprise that I just stood there like a deer in the headlights. The first thing John noticed when he came in was how my luggage was still in the same spot my mother left it in. Unknown to its placement John tripped over it.

"What the—" John questioned as he noticed what was in his way.

He looked up and immediately in my direction. When we locked eyes I ran over to Sherlock's desk and hid under it.

"Maximum? What are you doing here? Where is Sherlock?"

Side note: When I was younger I got mistaken for Maximum a lot. I know you don't know who that is, but you will. Just keep reading this shitty blog and you'll know everything.

John saw me crawl under the desk, I wasn't very sneaky about it so I know I could hear his timid footsteps coming right at me. My tiny body fit perfectly under the space. It was silent for only a second, I couldn't hear or see him anymore. Maybe he left? No. When John's face came into my vision I jumped back, my back smashing against the wood. I yelped rather loudly, enough to scare us both.

"You're not Maximum?" John's face wrinkled.

Side note: Basic biology can tell you John look much younger then compared to now. He didn't have as much grey hair or a drained face. Same for Sherlock.

I didn't answer John, I just stared at him, my eyes as wide as grapes.

The doctor looked away for a minute then as if a light turned on upstairs his face got exasperated and overwhelmed.

"Have you been staying here?" He tried asking another question.

Thankfully, that was a question I could answer. So with a simple shake of my head, I nodded.

The look on John's face, I could bet money on it, was a mixture of confusion and complete and utter pissed. His cheeks probably got reder than a tomato and his blood pressure was dangerously high. That crazy detective always knew how to make John go mad in an instant.

"Ohhh, ha ha," John sarcastically laughed, "Sherlock!" He moved away from me, "Where are you?!"

I could hear John rustling about the flat, stomping his feet in multiple directions. Then the sound of a door fly open echoed throughout the whole flat and John began to yell again on top of that. It was Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake the hell up!"

Sherlock was never a morning person. He wasn't an anytime of the day person but especially in the mornings. He physically and mentally couldn't function. So John and Sherlock both knew the way he went about waking him up wasn't going to go over easy.

John hovered over his bed, flickering the light switch repeatedly. Sherlock moaned and groaned at the military man. The words that were being said no one could make out. As Sherlock was coming to a conscious state he picked up his closest pillows and chucked them at John.

"Come on! Get up! Explain to me why a child has been staying with you!" John barked.

After a minute or two of constant yelling from both sides, I heard, well anyone I'm sure, could hear Sherlock get up from his bed and throw himself down the hallway, John hot on his tail. Once in the living room, Sherlock coiled up in his designated chair.

"John! How nice of you to grace me with your presence. How long has it been—" he stopped to yawn, "...this time? A month?"

John stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, chewing on his lip, "It's been a little over two weeks. Mary and I have been working and taking care of the kids."

Side note: Yes, John has not one child, but two. A boy and a girl. Annie and Christopher. During that summer I stayed with Sherlock, Annie was 7 and Christopher just turned 3. Sherlock has attachment issues when it comes to John. I'm not sure why. Dialogue accuracy 74.87%.

"So you don't have time to answer your mobile?" Sherlock cocked back.

"I read them, that's good enough. I dropped my phone in a bowl of cereal a couple days ago, I have to get a new one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You're so careless.".

I had my head peaking out when I saw John scanning the room. Everything was just as he knew except the loads of luggage, scattered toys and plastic ware and the small child hiding under a desk. That's me, by the way.

"Not a single text you sent me regarded a child staying with you though? Explain." His voice returned back to a stiff tone.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, "What child?" when it finally hit him, Sherlock dismissed the concern, "Oh, him? He's nothing."

"Excuse me?" John stepped forward, "Where did he come from Sherlock? Why is he even here?"

"He'll be staying with me for the summer. So far it's going good, Ryan doesn't even talk."

No I didn't talk, I had no reason too. Sherlock didn't even talk to me. He answered every single question directed towards me himself. Hell, we barely spent more than an hour together the whole day. But, that day I suppose, was the first time I opened my mouth. I screamed with everything I had. And my reason was because Sherlock got my name wrong.

Side note: Is my name really that hard to remember? Apparently for Sherlock it was. I know deep down I still harbor some bad feelings towards him for that.

"The sum—?"

I remained hidden under the desk but cut off whoever was talking, "My name is Roman!"

Sherlock smiles every time he tells me about the first time I talked. He claims it was only a test to see if I would correct him or not but I'm not dumb enough to believe that. It wasn't uncommon for him to forget names. It was too early in the morning for him to remember anyone's name. He then explains how after I screamed my peace, the whole atmosphere in the room broke. Sherlock felt fully awake and John was more confused than ever.

They both looked over me. There was more important matters at hand.

"Wait, what do you mean he'll be staying with you for the summer? Sherlock where did he come from?"

"Exactly that John, did I stutter?"

"My God! Who in their right mind let you watch their child? And for a whole damn summer!" The doctor threw up his hands.

"His mother."

"And who might that be? She isn't a very good mother to of have done such a careless thing."

Sherlock grew very quiet for a minute. It almost seemed as if he stopped breathing. He just sat there, staring at the ground.

"The woman."

Side note: Rarely did my father ever call my mother by her real name. It was always 'The Woman'. I've tried to ask why, I get no reply. More dramatic effect on the way Sherlock felt.

"Sherlock," John's voice suddenly filled with emotional sympathy, "she—"

"I know what you are going to say John, "but Sherlock's dead, remember?". You weren't a very convincing liar then and you still aren't. I knew she wasn't dead… I helped her escape. Obliviously she's not dead because she was just here in the flesh five or six days ago to drop the kid off. Please spare me the surprised face."

John's face still couldn't help but form an overwhelming shocked expression.

"But why did she leave him to you?"

I remember rather well how Sherlock decided the tension in the room, it was like tracing the alphabet on a balloon, with a needle. It was time to tell him.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tapped his fingers on his chair, "...because Roman," he moved his head in my direction, putting an emphasis on my name, "is… my… son."

Sherlock did his best to drag out his confession.

John did not say anything, just stand there shifting his weight from one foot to the other, staring deadly at Sherlock. There was no expression on his face. No happiness, sadness, upset or confusion. Even the mighty Sherlock couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Remember that talk we had about you telling me things… like this?" John's fist clinched together, his voice was almost too low to hear.

"Oh John, you know—"

"This is one of those things Sherlock!" John yelled from almost nowhere.

"There is no reason to shout. You are upsetting Roman."

Between you and me, I probably was perfectly comfortable under the desk, avoiding conflict and awkward eye contact. Sherlock just loved using me as an excuse to not be treated like an adult.

John threw up his hands and sighed loudly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"No one knows John, just Mycroft. Don't feel so left out."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, his eyes set to kill, the tone in his voice sounded bitter but it was questionable, "...When did this happen?"

On the other hand Sherlock answered with ease, like it was practice trivia, "January 19th, six years ago."

As if John couldn't believe that Sherlock knew the exact date his face crinkled like he had just ate a lemon. The juiciness and acid explosion colliding together to create such a face. He looked up with the same expression and thought profoundly, "Where was I?"

"Obviously not around John," he probably rolled his eyes, "or it wouldn't have happened..."

Side note: I'm not sure why it would have mattered if John was there or not. Sex is sex, regardless of who's around. Maybe that's just my sadistic ways talking. Okay, calm down Roman. Delete in the morning. 5:12am.

John still wasn't able to piece everything that was just revealed to him together. There was some things missing, big things. He had a million questions but Sherlock could only handle two or three more before that nerve the Doctor was on top of went over the edge.

"So, you and Irene… a baby… six years later… he's here. Why?" To anyone in the room it looked like John was speaking to himself, losing his mind thanks to the secret keeping detective. He was always doing this to John.

"She had some "business" to take care of and she thinks I haven't a clue where she is but we both know I do. I was the only one she trusted to care for Rom— my son."

Sherlock still to this day has the best faked smile I've ever seen. You know it's fake but the smile looks so generous. It's the kind of smile you feel uncomfortable looking at so you try your best to avoid it. Or if you're like me, you wanna punch him in the face. How stupid.

"You can't take care of him. You can't even take care of yourself Sherlock." John bluntly said.

"I beg-to-differ, we are doing quite fine," Sherlock would have shifted in his chair and speak nonchalantly, "Raising a child isn't that hard John."

"Yes it is!" the sound of John's laughed carried some anger and disbelief, "It's very hard."

"Then maybe you and Mary are doing something wrong. This parenting thing is easy. Come on John! It's an even ratio! You and Mary, Christopher and Annie. How hard can that be? Annie can basically take care of herself."

"She's seven!"

"And Christopher is four! Right? I've seen Annie care for Christopher like it's her own. "

Side note: Annie is the oldest, seven, and Christopher is actually three during this time. You'll be meeting them shortly. Christopher is honestly the sweetest, cutest, child I've ever seen but maybe I'm just being bias.

"The hell?! Sherlock do you hear yourself?"

"Well—"

"No! Don't answer that you arse!" John pointed directly at Sherlock who was getting frustrated with his protest, "I don't think you understand what you've gotten yourself into."

"I'm well aware John. Mrs. Hudson keeps him company when I am unavailable. However, I think it would be a good idea for Mary to watch him when you and I are out. "

"What? No!" John yelled, "I'm not doing that to my wife!"

"Roman isn't difficult, like I said, he doesn't even talk."

Sherlock realizes now that he was being very inconsiderate and self but didn't regret this idea. It would have saved a lot of hassle when I couldn't be with him. I wouldn't have been tossed off to the next available person.

John started pacing around the flat. His hands on his hips and shaking his head with disappointment. He stopped in front of my hiding spot, "No. You made all the choices to end up where you are now, no one else is going to pay for them, not even Mrs. Hudson. You will take responsibility. If you think parenting is easy then you should have no problem balancing a child and your everyday life."

"Are you mad? I can't take him on a case with me!" Sherlock twisted in his chair quickly and glared at John.

"Then you need to find yourself a babysitter, that isn't Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock looked away for a minute, thinking as quick as he could, "Ah! I'll give Marry thirty-five pounds every time she watches him."

"Oh my God Sherlock! No! The two we have is more than enough! Christopher is at that stage where he gets into everything. You can't take your eyes off him for a second."

Sherlock stood up, well more like threw himself off the chair with attitude and made his way into the kitchen. On his way, he tripped over the biggest piece of my unpacked luggage. Instead of moving it out of the way he just kicked it aside, mumbling words to himself.

"And why isn't Roman's things unpacked?" John pointed, "Where is he sleeping?"

"I haven't thought of a place to put it yet and the couch. Want some Coffee John?" Sherlock tried to change the subject.

"What? He shouldn't be sleeping on the couch. What's wrong with your room?"

Side note: There was everything wrong with his room. I'm not going to explain but just know it wasn't a child friendly environment.

"Um? I sleep there John?"

"Not anymore. You probably keep Roman up at night. You don't go to bed til the morning anyways." John began to pick up my things and haul them into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock dramatically sighed, throwing a mug he was rinsing out down. The thundering of his footsteps following behind John shook the whole floor.

"No! I'm not giving up my room!"

"You don't have a choice! As a parent it's your job to give things up for your child's well being. Parenting is easy right, Sherlock?" The sound of both their voices started to fade but echo throughout the house.

"Shut up!"

By the time they finished arguing I guess I had mustered up the courage to crawl out from my hiding spot. But I just stood there, gawking at the hallway, waiting for them to come back. When I heard footsteps I wanted to return back into hiding but John's eyes had already locked on me and I was frozen in position. Why was I such a chicken?

"You look dirty, have you bathed since you've been here?" John stood over four feet away from me but it felt like he was hovering on top of me. His structure blocked all the light in the room.

WIthout much movement I slightly shook my head no.

"Well," John sighed and motioned me towards him, "let's get one."

Like I normally do, I'm sure I hesitated. I had only met this man today and it seems he's not very nice. He yells quite frequently, mainly at Sherlock, but he sure was a hell of a lot nicer than my own father. He had kids so he knew how to treat them.

We passed Sherlock on our way and he quickly turned around and stomped back. The closer he got the farther away I moved. There was great aggravation in his body language. His fist were in a ball and his eyes were trying to understand what was going on.

"What are you doing?" He loudly asked.

"Roman needs to get a bath. He hasn't bathed since he got here Sherlock."

"Oh..." The stress released once he took a deep breath, "I was going to have him do that tonight."

"Right," John sarcastically said as he opened the bathroom door. He pushed me inside and turned on the light, "I'll go get him some clothes, you help him undress and start the bath water." He directed his voice towards Sherlock.

"John he can do that by himself?" Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bathroom, pouting like a child.

In that moment Sherlock told me he felt helpless and uncomfortable. I'm sure he wasn't the only one.

"No, he's only five you damn idiot!"

"Oh here we go again!" The detective threw his hands up.

Sherlock disappeared from the bathroom back into his, now my bedroom. Both their voice began to raise but no one really remembers what they fought about. We can all assume it was about me and my ability to do things.

Needless to say it was some time before I was actually able to get a bath. And to no surprise Sherlock had no part.

Side note: My mother sheltered me as a child and did almost everything for me, bathe me, cook for me, tie my shoes, zip my coats, pushed me on the swings, anything. However, because of Sherlock's, lazy and insensitive ways that summer I did more learning than playing. Life lessons that stuck.

-End.

 _Sorry it took so long to post chapter 3. I was on vacation and had some trouble structuring everything together. But how did you like it? Sherlock and John butt heads a good bit throughout the story. Prepare yourself. Review, follow, favorite, please and thank you! Chapter 4 will be posted as soon as I can._


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